Chapter 6
Chapter 6
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Princess Yuria's Summons
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Having overcome the biggest mountain and resolved even the technical issues.
The only remaining puzzle piece was a single one: the royal family's cooperation to provide 'authority'.
Lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, I fell deep into thought.
'Sir James and Marquis Frederick were recruited by stimulating their desires and loyalties. But...'
What should I offer royalty?
Money and honor? They already had more than enough of that.
What bait could I possibly throw to seat those haughty royals on the judging panel?
'...First, dangle the prestige and recognition of the royal family as bait, borrow Father's reputation to build trust, then negotiate by offering a share of the video profits?'
But all the strategies I was rolling around in my head soon became utterly useless.
Suddenly, an uninvited guest had arrived.
"Are you Leban BlackStone, the author who wrote [King of Winter]?"
"Uh, that... I did write it, but..."
The attendant, with a polite demeanor, wore a coat emblazoned with the royal crest.
Upon hearing my response, he bowed his head and spoke.
"Please spare a moment. Princess Yuria von Ispell has a message to convey to you in secret."
"...Pardon? Who?"
My heart plummeted.
The princess was seeking me out as an 'author'?
She who was second in the line of succession to the throne?
**
The lavish royal carriage was plush and comfortable.
But inside that smoothly gliding carriage, I felt like I was going to puke the whole time.
It was like being dragged into a tiger's den to be eaten alive—how could I enjoy the soft seat?
My head was filled with ominous imaginings.
'She called me the author. That means she's read my book...'
[King of Winter].
What was its content again?
A parricidal epic where the prince falls into corruption, murders his father, destroys the kingdom, and then takes on the entire world.
'Shit... Am I dead?'
What would a real royal—second in line to the throne, no less—think upon seeing that mess?
Wouldn't she demand the guillotine for daring to tarnish royal dignity?
No, if it ended with just me, that'd be fortunate. What if she accused the BlackStone family of treason and tried to wipe out the entire house?
'No, no. Our family has been loyal for years. She won't go that far. At worst, imprisonment for insulting royalty or hard labor in the mines... Damn it!'
No matter how I tried to spin positive thoughts in my head, no bright future appeared.
As I clutched my head, agonizing over how to minimize my punishment...
The carriage had apparently arrived at its destination.
"Please step down."
The attendants pulled my staggering self from the carriage, gave me a quick pat-down, and escorted me deep into the palace.
Arriving with the mindset of a prisoner being led to the gallows, the place turned out to be a vibrant greenhouse garden filled with floral scents.
And there, she was.
"Nice to meet you, Young Master Leban BlackStone."
The woman sat gracefully at the tea table, gently setting down her teacup.
Platinum blonde hair, skin white to the point of transparency, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through a person.
It was Princess Yuria von Ispell, the eldest daughter of the current king.
"Leban BlackStone, second son of the BlackStone family, greets Your Highness."
I recalled hazy royal etiquette and bowed as politely as possible.
It was a desperate writhing infused with the earnest plea to at least keep my head attached.
"Raise your head."
A clear, calm voice echoed through the blooming garden.
I lifted my head cautiously, eyes downcast.
Sensing my trembling, the princess lightly tapped the table, then gestured to the maids.
"All of you, withdraw. I wish to have an in-depth literary discussion with Young Master BlackStone."
"Pardon? But, Your Highness..."
"I said withdraw."
...Did her tone just shift a bit?
As the maids withdrew in confusion, only the princess and I remained in the garden.
Suffocating silence.
She stared at me intently, then lightly tapped the book on the table.
The title [King of Winter] emblazoned on the cover sent a chill tightening around my neck.
"Young Master."
"...Yes, Your Highness."
"Tell me honestly."
A bright smile bloomed on her face.
It was more dazzling than the sunlight pouring into the garden.
As if the goddess of beauty had descended—that overwhelming allure made even my anxiety fade for a moment.
"The scene where the prince sets the entire city ablaze. What were you thinking when you wrote that?"
"...Pardon??"
I doubted my ears for a second.
This wasn't a trial for insulting royalty?
...At the very least, I expected something like "Blasphemous" or "Revise it immediately"?
"Do you think that was the best decision?"
Her voice was calm, but her eyes gleamed strangely.
The moment I met those eyes, I instinctively realized.
This wasn't an interrogation—it was the gaze of someone craving discussion.
"Well... The citizens were already infected with the plague. Strategically, it wasn't a wrong judgment, but..."
"Right? It wasn't wrong, was it?"
Yuria set down her teacup and leaned forward.
Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of mass swayed, and a subtle rose scent wafted to my nose, making my head spin.
To protect my neck, I shifted my gaze far away and continued.
"Ahem. Hm. The problem was how unilateral the process was. That arrogance ultimately led to his own downfall."
"Hmm... So, you believe the ends justify the means, Young Master Leban?"
"...Pardon?"
Her interpretation left me reeling for a moment.
No, I just wrote it from memory of the game story.
But Yuria seemed to have read some unintended philosophy into my words.
"The anguish of a man falling into corruption. The contradictions of love and hatred for his father and people. And those self-destructive choices he makes, knowing full well they'll lead to ruin..."
The princess recited scenes from my novel like poetry, her cheeks faintly flushing in rapture.
This princess... wasn't normal.
Or more precisely... she smelled like my kind.
Beneath the mask of refined royalty lurked a dopamine addict hooked on stimulation and thrill!
After peppering me with questions about my work for a good while, Yuria finally got to the point.
"So, when will the final third volume be published? It's been a fortnight since the second came out."
At those words, cold sweat dripped down my back.
Was the princess seriously hounding me for the next chapter of the parricidal prince's tale?
"Well... It's set to go straight to the printers once the final revisions are done. Right now, the ending feels a bit... lacking in polish, according to feedback."
"Polish?"
"Yes. Too many say it's overly tragic, so we're tweaking it toward something more crowd-pleasing."
It was true.
Marlin and Mother had nagged me relentlessly with "Too cruel" and "Give it a hopeful ending," so I was softening it a bit.
Yuria's brow furrowed slightly.
"So the printed third volume will differ from your original, Young Master?"
"Yes. Considering public sentiment, the excessively brutal or tragic parts will be toned down."
"Sigh..."
She openly showed her disappointment.
"That's a shame. I loved the unrefined, raw... feral feel of it."
Yuria took a sip of her lukewarm tea, then flicked out her tongue to lick her lips, as if trying to erase that momentary disappointment.
But I could read the sticky regret and desire in her expression.
'Opportunity.'
I decided to play my bold hand here.
Once you've read your opponent's cards, making the deal is easy as pie.
"Your Highness. If you wish..."
I lowered my voice to a secretive whisper.
"I could transcribe an uncensored original just for you."
"Oh my."
Yuria's eyes widened into circles, a radiant smile spreading across her lips.
"The unexpurgated story, raw as it is?"
"Of course. The true tale, untouched by anyone."
In that moment, I boldly raised the stakes.
My gut told me now or never.
"I'm not presuming to set conditions, but... there's another story I think Your Highness would find most intriguing. Shall I tell you?"
"Another novel?"
"No. Something more stimulating than fiction—a real-world tale."
I pulled out the [Royal Chef Survival] proposal I always carried and placed it on the table.
"What's this?"
"A cooking competition. But not just any competition."
For the first time, I met her eyes directly and spoke with utter conviction.
"It's the story of the greatest—and first ever—'show' in history."
"...Show?"
"Thousands of participants clawing over each other in fierce competition. Nobles and commoners stripped of titles, clashing purely on skill in a true battle royale. The judges' sharp critiques, the contestants' tears, betrayal and twists..."
Seeing the intrigue in the princess's eyes, I swallowed and delivered the knockout blow.
"I'll show you the same thrill you felt from my novel, but in living reality before your eyes."
"That's... intriguing?"
A strange flame flickered in Yuria's eyes.
She leaned forward from her chair back, closing in on me.
"Continue, author."
**
After that, everything fell into place smoothly.
I explained the intent behind [Royal Chef Survival] and the mechanisms hidden within.
The extreme missions pushing contestants to the brink.
The brutal tournament where they must trample each other to rise.
And the raw, unfiltered faces of humanity that would emerge.
She clapped in delight at the proposal, and from her reaction, I gained certainty.
This was it. Done.
The princess before me could never refuse this offer.
"So, Your Highness... could you serve as the symbol to elevate this competition's stature?"
"Symbol?"
"Yes. Not just judging the food, but personally awarding the trophy to the winner and proclaiming this a legitimate royal event. To the public, you'd be the 'benevolent princess fostering the people's culture,' but..."
I grinned and added,
"In truth, you'd rule this blood-soaked coliseum. An absolute sovereign who decides the life or elimination of countless chefs with a flick of your finger."
Absolute sovereign.
Those words must have sounded sweet in the princess's ears.
An unrestrained smile spread across Yuria's face.
"Very well. Since you boast so confidently... I'll look forward to it."
"You won't be disappointed, Your Highness."
As I bowed politely and withdrew, the brightest smile I'd ever worn graced my lips.
'Princess Yuria! Just her face appearing briefly guarantees skyrocketing viewership. And with royal authority on top, failure is impossible.'
Marquis Frederick's capital, Lucia's tech, Sir James's expertise, and Princess Yuria's authority and beauty.
Finally, my dream team was complete.
Perfect. Now it was time to unleash the festival that would turn this boring kingdom upside down.
**
And a few days later.
Hundreds of posters were plastered across the central square of the capital Ispellia and bulletin boards nationwide.
Flutter.
[With just one dish, your fate changes!]
[Artists of the plate, prove yourselves!]
Prize: 10,000 Gold
Passersby's eyes locked onto the flashy posters.
"What's all that?"
"Dunno. Somethin' about a cooking contest from the palace."
"Prize of 10,000 gold? Crazy! Money you couldn't touch in a lifetime of work!"
"Aigoo, what business do hicks like us have with that? Why post it so big?"
"Why not? No limits on status or age! Anyone can join. Hey, neighbor Marian makes killer soup—should tell her to give it a shot?"
"Aigoo, quit yappin'. Think that'd suit fancy lords' tastes?"
Most people dismissed the posters as juicy gossip and moved on.
But to a few chefs harboring ember-like ambitions...
It looked like the one chance to turn their lives around.
In the kingdom's outskirts.
In a shabby diner in the small port city of Luden, one girl scrubbing plates was among them.
"Royal... Chef?!"
She wiped her hands on her grimy apron and stared holes into the poster on the wall.
Meylin, the fifteen-year-old girl.
Her gaze lingered on the huge text at the bottom.
[Prize: 10,000 Gold]
Meylin's eyes sparkled.
Ten thousand gold coins—enough to eat every delicious thing in the world and still have leftovers.
No, entering the palace meant feasting on delicacies every day, right?
She swallowed hard.
To Meylin, cooking was survival and her sole joy.
She started cooking to eat tasty things, honed her skills to eat even tastier ones.
Neighbors just called her food "tasty," but she knew.
The talent in her tongue and fingertips.
And that it was too precious to rot in this rural backwater.
Her eyes burned with ambition.
That night.
Meylin sneaked into her father's room with a resolute expression.
With trembling hands, she grabbed the emergency money pouch hidden deep under the bed.
"Sorry, Dad! I'll win and pay you back a hundredfold!"
Meylin packed hastily.
One bundle for clothes, another for her cherished frying pan and kitchen knife—a spartan setup.
In that state, she slipped out of the house and boarded the first train of dawn.
And similar scenes were unfolding across the Ispell Kingdom. People clutching massive bundles, boarding trains.
The destination of their dreams and ambitions was one and the same.
The capital Ispellia, where the grand show was being prepared.